[186 Cayuga St., St. Paul, Minnesota: 1958]

Ernest Brandt, who was my mother’s boyfriend for about forty years, discovered my secret when I was eleven, back in the summer of ’58, in St. Paul, Minnesota. He had about half an acre of land in the city, and a big garden, and he gave me a little section to grow carrots.

Well, I was grateful, so I tried to imitate him by planting my seeds in several rows: not too close to each other, not too far apart, and I would pull weeds, water my garden plot, etcetera, etcetera; but my carrots did not grow like yours: but my envy did.

Well, we lived next door to each other; a vacant lot separated the houses. In any case, it wasn’t a long walk to his garden: just a short walk across the field and a mere hop over his fence.

So every once in a while he would go and check my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t great, not compared to his anyway. Therefore, that day, a summer day, in 1958, my mother had just come down to visit him (he could see her walking from our house to his), and I knew then that she would not return to the garden for the rest of the night. . They took turns going to each other’s houses, but as time passed and I got older, it seemed that she preferred her house, perhaps because of my grandfather and her bad mood.

In any case, Ernest came into his house and I started to look at his garden, comparing it to mine, since they were next to each other, and he had many different vegetables growing in his garden, but somehow he was more interested in how her carrots were growing. The tops of his carrots were as round as my writing, and mine were as round as my thumb: this was not fair, not fair at all, so I felt, and envy came over me, like white on rice.

So I looked here and there, especially at the back door that led to a wooden platform, a kind of open porch, to see if Ernie was coming, and he wasn’t. I carefully dug around a big carrot of his, pulled it out, from the last row by the fence, surely I thought, I wouldn’t miss this single big carrot among so many. Then I put the dirt around him so he wouldn’t expect any dirty deeds to be done to him (but life is never that sweet and simple, is it: what goes around comes around, and when it does, it often hits you).

So the thing was done, and I went back home to watch TV with Grandpa. I hid some apples on the side of the sofa like I used to do so Grandpa wouldn’t see them, because he was sitting across from me, looking at me like always. , like a hawk, and watching TV as usual, a western as he liked more often, and when he would see my fruit, he would say: “When are you going to stop eating?” the pipe half out of his mouth, as if it were going to fall to the floor at any moment, half lit he would leave it in the ashtray smoldering slowly, he would lean back in the chair again, he would go back to concentrating on his western.

Consequently, I hid the rest of my fruit, and he thought I was eating my first apple or orange the whole time, and that was it, and he wouldn’t realize my little ploy until I was brave enough to get up. and I go out to the kitchen I open the noisy refrigerator, and who could hide that farce, it would still be my fifth or sixth.

Anyway, around 9:30 pm, my mom came home with Ernie, he always walked her home, and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to come into the kitchen for a moment, and every time she asked me to, she knew she was in trouble. And I was in trouble, and I went to the kitchen. Ernie was there with a big carrot in his hand, for a moment I thought it was just some vegetables from his garden that he used to bring home for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Does this look familiar?”

“No,” I said, “why?” (But of course it looked very familiar.)

“I think so,” my mother said, a hawk’s eye piercing me.

“Well,” she said, “Ernie found this in your garden and for some strange reason it didn’t seem to belong in there with all your little carrots.”

He had planted it again, you see, thinking how proud he would be to show it off later.

“Yeah,” I said (I knew I couldn’t talk to help it), and added, “Yo, I didn’t think taking a carrot would matter, I mean you have all the big ones, I only have little ones.”

Maybe some logic to my statement, but surely no justification for the theft and I guess that’s what it really was. Looking back now, I think they were trying to contain the humor of the situation, but they were stealing anyway and had to be dealt with. Little white sins, or distortions or deletions, they all add up after a while and become big white sins, and then who knows where it might go, or where it would lead, and I’m sure that’s what my mother was thinking. . But I would never have made a thief; I got caught every time, that is, the few times I tried to get my way.

“Didn’t it seem obvious that it would stand out?” asked my mother (I think envy blinded me). I just shrugged, I wasn’t thinking logically.

He seemed a bit anxious to be caught; I guess he was more sorry for getting caught, less for taking the carrot: in any case, I said, “I never thought of that.” And that was the truth.

Written in St. Paul, Minnesota, 9-24-2005/revised 3-3009

Spanish version

The Big Carrot

[Calle Cayuga # 186, San Pablo, Minnesota: 1958]

Ernesto Brandt, who was in love with my mother for nearly forty years, discovered my secret when I was one year old, in the summer of 1958 in Saint Paul, Minnesota, United States. He had about half an acre of land in the city and a large garden and he had given me a small section of it to plant carrots.

Well, I was very grateful and so I tried to imitate him by planting my seeds in several rows, not too close to each other and not too far apart either, and I would pull out the weeds, water the piece of the garden, etc.; but my carrots didn’t grow like his, but my envy did.

Well, we lived close to each other; with an empty lot that separated the houses. In any case, it was not a long walk to his garden; just a short run across the field and a simple hop over his fence.

That’s why every once in a while he would check my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t very good, not compared to his, anyway. So, this summer day in 1958, my mother had just come down to visit him (he could see her walking towards her house) and therefore I knew that he would not return to the garden for the restaurant in the evening. They took turns going to each other’s house, but as time passed and I got older, it seemed that she preferred to go to his house, perhaps due to my grandfather and his bad temper.

In any case, Ernesto entered his house, and I kept looking at his garden, comparing it to mine, since they were next to each other, and he had many vegetables growing in his garden, but somehow I was more interested in seeing how his carrots were growing. The tops of his carrots were as round as my wrists, while mine were as round as my thumb; This was not fair, not by any means, that’s what I felt, and envy took over me, like my shadow.

Consequently, I looked here and there, mostly toward the back door that led out onto a wooden platform, some kind of open terrace, to see if Erni was coming, and he wasn’t. I carefully dug around one of his large carrots, and pulled it out, from the back row of the fence. He thought that surely he would not notice this single large carrot among many others. Then I filled the hole with dirt, so he wouldn’t know that someone had played a dirty deed on him (but life isn’t always so sweet and simple, it is: what comes and goes and comes back, and when this happens it often crashes right into you)

Then the fact was given and I went back home to watch television with my grandfather-I hid a few apples by the side of the sofa, as usual so that my grandfather wouldn’t see them, because he sat in front of me, looking at me like a hawk as always, and watching a western as often as he liked, and when he would look at my fruit he would say “when are you going to stop eating!” his pipe almost half out of his mouth, as if it was going to fall to the floor at any memory, he would put it on the half-lit ashtray burning slowly, and settle back on his couch focusing on his western again.

So I hid the rest of my fruit, and he thought I was eating my first apple or orange every time, and he didn’t find out about my little ploy until I was brave enough to get up and go into the kitchen to open the fridge. noisy, and who could hide that charade, although it would be my fifth or sixth fruit.

In any case, around 9:30 at night, my mother came with Erni, he always accompanied her back home, and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to go to the kitchen for a few minutes. Every time she asked me this I knew she was in trouble. And she was in trouble, and she ran into the kitchen. Erni was there with a big carrot in his hands, for a memory he thought that some of his garden were just vegetables, since he frequently brought some to the house for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Does it look familiar?”

“No” I said, “why” (but of course this one looked very familiar)

“I think it is,” my mother said, her hawk eyes piercing me.

“Well,” she said, “Erni found this in your garden and for some weird reason it seemed like it didn’t belong there with all your little carrots.”

I had replanted it, you see, thinking how proud I would be to show it off later.

“Yeah” I said (I knew I couldn’t get away) adding “Yo, I didn’t think pulling out a carrot would matter, I mean you have all those big carrots, while I only have little ones”

Maybe it’s a bit of logic to my argument, but for sure it wasn’t a justification for the robbery and I suppose that this was in reality. Now that I think back, I think they were trying to hold back their laughter at the hilarity of the situation, but it was a robbery, nothing less, and it had to be treated as such. Little white sins, distortions, or deletions, they all add up after a while and surely turned into huge white sins, and then who knows where they might go, or lead, and I’m sure that was what my mother was thinking. . But I would never have become a thief, always flu discover, that is the few times I tried to get away with something.

“Didn’t it seem obvious to you that this one would stand out?” my mother asked me (I think my envy blinded me). I just shrugged my shoulders, I wasn’t thinking reasonably.

He seemed a bit worried about being found out; I think he was more sorry for having been found out and less sorry for having picked up the carrot; in any case, I said: “he never thought of it that way.” And that was the truth.

Written in St. Paul, Minnesota on February 24, 2005. Revised in March 2009.